


The Proper Order of Things

by onstraysod



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Friendship, M/M, Romantic Friendship, Slow Burn, slowly edging into, whatever that is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-07-15 09:53:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16060664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/pseuds/onstraysod
Summary: Perhaps there were no two men aboardH.M.S. Erebusas different as Harry Goodsir and James Fitzjames. Yet from the beginning of the expedition, Harry had had no better friend. Only when events strain their relationship does Harry fully realize how much James's friendship means to him - and how deeply James's feelings for him go.





	1. Chapter 1

“Are you now an expert on the ice too, Mr. Goodsir?”

The words, like all painful things, came unexpectedly. Their eyes met before Goodsir had the presence of mind to hide his emotion and he wondered - later when he was alone and at leisure to wonder about such things - if the hurt had been writ too plainly upon his face. He’d lowered his head then, cheeks stinging: burnt by the wind, by rebuke. Like a whipped dog, he thought later, and shook his head at such foolishness.

Life aboard a ship at sea - now a ship locked in the pack - gave rise inevitably to such mistakes. Close quarters and boredom threw men together and kindnesses bestowed only as a matter of convenience, a way to preserve good cheer, could be mistaken for true friendship. Lines of demarcation that should have kept clear differences in rank and privilege blurred under such conditions, and familiarity ran unchecked. The proper order of things, when restored, came like the first northern wind of the winter, the first plunge into an icy sea, shocking those men not wise enough to be prepared.

Back in his small cabin, Goodsir sat at his desk and took out his sketchbook. He pulled his box of glass plate negatives over, and one of his natural history books, and set about trying to distract himself with flora and fauna and the human circulatory system. But pages and print and anatomical illustrations slipped beneath his fingers and faded before his eyes. He kept hearing Lieutenant Gore’s scream, drowned out by his own. He kept seeing the wash of blood upon snow, vivid red even in the starless polar night, and the Inuit man writhing in pain beneath his helpless hands. Sometime in the hell of the past days his heart had taken to beating at double time and he was beginning to fear it would never resume its normal rhythm.

It was not that Commander Fitzjames’s hard tone and harder words haunted him more than what had happened on the sledging trip. It was just that they made everything else so much worse. He had thought to receive some comfort from Fitzjames, had expected that the commander might at least take him aside, ask how he fared, thank him for his report about what had occurred out there in the white wastes. Despite his elevated position, no one on _Erebus_ had shown Goodsir as much kindness as Fitzjames had. 

Since the very first day they’d launched from Greenhithe, the dashing captain had been uncommonly solicitous, making sure that all of Goodsir’s instruments had been safely stowed in his cabin, encouraging Goodsir to come to him with any problems or concerns. During the first months of the voyage, as the black-and-yellow ships cut their way through the gray waters of the Labrador Sea and into Baffin Bay, Fitzjames had encouraged the crew to gather as much aquatic life for the naturalist as they could, and he had taken a lively interest in Goodsir’s studies. The two men had spent many convivial evenings in Goodsir’s cabin, poring over natural history texts and discussing recent discoveries, of which Fitzjames had proved very well informed. Goodsir had shown the captain his specimens and sketches of exotic plants and creatures he had observed, and Fitzjames had spent so much time with his eye at the microscope, peering at slides and commenting excitedly on their contents, that Goodsir had almost feared he would lose his instrument to the wardroom. In the privacy of these evenings, Fitzjames had taken to calling Goodsir ‘Harry,’ at his insistence, and had given Goodsir permission to call him ‘James’ when they were alone.

All the distractions at hand doing him no good in this wash of memories, Goodsir took off his spectacles and leaned his head back wearily. He dared not close his eyes, lest he see again - permanently imprinted on his eyelids - the moment of Gore’s grisly death. Instead he rubbed the heels of his palms against them, trying to relieve the incessant sting that plagued them. It had been “Mr. Goodsir’ in the wardroom, but that was to be expected in front of the other men. The coldness of the commander’s voice, the flippancy of his words, however…

Goodsir rose and moved towards his bunk. It was late. After the events of the past day, he should have been abed long ago, recovering his sapped strength and whatever peace of mind was left to grasp. Maybe sleep - if he could reach that happy state - would ease the foolish pain with which he was now preoccupied.

Just as he had sat down on the side of his bunk, intending to remove his boots, there was a soft rap upon the door. Goodsir sighed, allowing the sound of his irritation to be audible. No doubt someone in the sick bay was in need of attention and one of the men on watch, knowing better than to trouble Stanley, had come to roust him out instead. “I’ll be there in a moment,” he muttered and braced his hands on his thighs, breathing deeply to regain some equilibrium.

“It’s Fitzjames, Mr. Goodsir. May I come in?”

A weight seemed to shift in Goodsir’s chest and he jumped to his feet, pausing for a moment before opening the door.

The commander stood in the passageway, in his shirtsleeves, his white silk waistcoat gleaming in the light of the oil lamps. 

“I’m sorry to trouble you so late, but damn clumsy fool that I am, I slipped on a wet patch just below the hatch and caught myself rather hard on my left hand.” He held out the hand in question. “I didn’t want to disturb Dr. Stanley - I believe we all know how he feels about being roused from his bed - but I thought perhaps you might not mind tending to me.”

Goodsir swallowed. In the past he doubted he would have thought anything of the commander’s words, but at that moment he could not help but feel them condescending. _Of course Goodsir would not mind being roused from his sleep. Or course Goodsir won’t complain._

“Let us go to the sick bay,” Goodsir said quietly, but Fitzjames shook his head.

“No, there is no need for all that. I have a slight pain in the wrist but I do not think it is broken. I thought perhaps you might be able to easily ascertain that by taking a look?”

Goodsir gave a nod and beckoned for Fitzjames to enter, closing the cabin’s door behind him.

“Roll up your sleeve, please.”

Fitzjames leaned back against Goodsir’s desk and began unbuttoning his left cuff, the long fingers of his right hand moving deftly over the buttons. “I feel such a fool. I am usually a bit more sure-footed around the hatch. Perhaps I overindulged at dinner.” He rolled up his sleeve and offered his forearm to Goodsir, who supported it with his left hand while probing gently at the commander’s wrist with the fingers of his right. It was a strong wrist, dusted sparsely with dark hairs, and the skin was warm to Goodsir’s touch. He felt along the delicate bones, paying particular attention to the scaphoid and the lunate.

“The bones seem sound,” Goodsir said softly, “I can detect no fractures.”

“That’s a relief,” Fitzjames said cheerfully. “I didn’t think I’d broken it, but I thought it best to have it checked by someone more knowledgeable in such matters.” He offered Goodsir a smile which Goodsir did not feel up to returning. “I am sorry to have troubled you.”

“It was no trouble.” Goodsir winced inwardly at the dullness of his tone, but he could not be bothered to alter it.

Despite his words, Fitzjames made no move to leave. He busied himself with his sleeve, looking down at his fingers working to secure the cuff. “Harry, I-- I spoke rather rudely to you earlier tonight and there was no call for it. I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me.” Fitzjames looked up then, meeting Goodsir’s eyes.

Goodsir had not expected an apology and the surprise caused his breath to catch in his throat, making an immediate reply impossible. He swallowed, fighting back a fresh sting in his eyes. “Do not trouble yourself about it.”

Fitzjames nodded, dropping his gaze. “I cannot imagine what you experienced out there. It must have been…” He shook his head. “Well. I was wondering if, perhaps, you would wish to speak of it. To ease your mind.” Fitzjames paused, looking at him again. “I am here, if you--"

“I would rather not and I’d rather you left now,” Goodsir said suddenly, before adding: “Commander.”

He recognized in himself at that moment an unfortunate perversion, a common one perhaps: the desire to twist the knife a little deeper in the wound, to prolong his pain and throw it back at the person who had caused it. Before he could think twice about it Goodsir had spoken, and his regret was immediate and sharp. Fitzjames stared at him, his mouth open on unfinished words, and Goodsir could see the sting of his sudden, cold formality reflected back at him in the captain’s dark eyes.

“Of--of course.” Fitzjames nodded and stood straight, not looking at Goodsir again. “Then I will wish you good night.” In a moment he was gone, the door of the cabin shut at his back.

Goodsir wanted with all his heart to wrench the door open, to call for James, to run after him. But even he had his pride. So he stood instead, balling his fists until his hands ached, then thrusting his fingers into his hair. Now to the catalog of horrible images his mind could replay was added that of James’s face, his overtures of renewed friendship having been rebuffed. 

Whatever there had once been between them, Goodsir realized, he had just destroyed in a single moment of pique.

He sat down on his bunk and let his head fall into his hands.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When his friendship with Fitzjames shows no sign of mending, Goodsir reflects sadly upon the expedition's earlier, happier days.

Goodsir did not see Fitzjames for any length of time again until the day of Sir John’s death. He took his meals in his cabin and avoided the wardroom, volunteering for extra duty in the sick bay as both a good excuse for his absences and as a tonic for his troubled mind. Staying occupied helped somewhat, but regret and wistful memories still found a way to intrude. When the two men passed on deck or in one of the passages - something unavoidable on a cramped, ice-locked ship - Fitzjames greeted him with a curt “Goodsir” and nod, and Goodsir felt each time like another little piece of him had been chipped away. _He will not call me even_ "Mr." _Goodsir now_. He forced himself to respond with as cheerful a “Good morning” or “Good afternoon, Commander” as he could muster, hoping that his tone might indicate to Fitzjames that he was receptive - no, eager - for a renewal of their former friendship. But Fitzjames never met his eye as they passed, and as the days went by Goodsir’s abundant hope dwindled.

That fading hope flickered up again on the morning of the attack. Goodsir had just left his cabin and was on his way to the sick bay when he found Fitzjames heading towards him, their eyes at last meeting. “Goodsir - I’ve been looking for you.”

It was pathetic, the way his heart leapt with relief. “Yes, Commander? What can I do for you?”

“Nothing for me. Sir John wishes you to accompany him to the hunting blind this afternoon. Take your camera: he wants a photograph made of himself and the men.”

And with that Fitzjames had squeezed past him and was gone. The last spark of hope Goodsir cherished sizzled out as if smothered by snow.

After the gunfire and blood, after all that could be found of the mortal remains of Sir John Franklin had been recovered, the men who had been in the hunting blind - those who had survived, at least - had been gathered in the wardroom on _Erebus_ to describe what they had seen. Crozier, Fitzjames, Blanky, Le Vesconte, Little, and a few other officers sat at the table, while Goodsir and the Marines gave their testimony. Cold, and in a state of shock that left him barely conscious of his surroundings, Goodsir could manage little more than fragmented expressions of bewilderment. It had all happened so fast, and so senselessly.

Several of the officers met Goodsir’s gaze and a few, Crozier included, had taken him aside prior to the meeting, asking after his own well-being. Fitzjames had neither looked at him nor spoken. Franklin’s death was a blow to them all, but for Fitzjames it was clearly something deeper. Slumped in his chair, his broad shoulders bowed as if the creature itself perched upon them, he looked like he’d aged a decade in the course of an hour. Goodsir wanted to speak to him, to reach out and place a hand upon his arm, to offer some weak measure of consolation. But he knew he could not. If ever he had had the right to attempt such an action, it was long past now, and most of the blame was his.

He had had time, since that night in his cabin, to mourn. Not only for Gore and the other men they had lost - to illness, to accident, to some unfathomable beast - but for the one friendship he thought he’d forged on the expedition. Mourned, too, for his own naïveté. Maybe both were necessary casualties of their imperiled circumstances: the friendship and the foolishness. In such straits discipline was a necessity, and there was no use for sentiment in relations between the ranks of men. None either for imagining attachments that did not exist.

“Thank you, men,” Crozier said at last, his voice somber. “Go now, get some rest. We will discuss amongst ourselves how best to proceed against the creature.”

Goodsir followed the Marines out of the room, hardly conscious of doing so. His movements were leaden, dread overlaying him. It would fall to him to place what remained of Sir John’s corporeal form inside the coffin Mr. Honey was even now preparing. The thought of it made him want to run and hide. He was unsure if he could face it, but then again it occurred to him that perhaps there was no more suitable task for him in his present misery. And, maybe, no task he more deserved.

Save for that sad duty, Goodsir kept to his cabin for most of that long, dismal day. Every time he heard a step in the passage outside his door, his heart raced with both hope and horror. He had convinced himself that Fitzjames would see his survival of the attack on the hunting blind as a cowardly act of self-preservation, and tell him so. He made himself imagine the worst possible encounter, the most hurtful things Fitzjames might say.

_Was there nothing you could have done to save Sir John? Did you even make an attempt? Or were you only concerned with saving your own life? Yes, I imagine you ran as fast as the pack would allow you, didn’t you Goodsir? You are truly worthless baggage on this expedition, mere ballast we should long since have tossed overboard._

Goodsir lay down on his bunk, fully dressed, listening to the sounds of the ship around him: the voices of the men, the clanging of cookery in the galley, the constant crack and grumble of the ice outside. _The ice_. Cause of all their woes and miseries, it seemed. He remembered, with almost visceral pain, the days of open water when their dearest wish was to spot the first berg, when the Arctic lands still seemed like places out of a fairy tale.

***

_**6 June, 1845** _

_“Good morning, Mr. Goodsir! You are on deck early.”_

_Goodsir turned to find Commander Fitzjames striding towards him, hands clasped behind his back. How he envied the man’s easy, confident walk! It appeared effortless - but of course he’d learned from Lt. Gore that Fitzjames had been at sea since he was twelve. Everything about this life was so unfamiliar to Goodsir that he felt like a newborn babe. Even walking along the deck on a sea that was relatively calm, as it was today, took conscious effort for him to accomplish with any grace._

_Fitzjames moved as if he were part of the ship, like the wheel or one of the sails, his body adjusting to every wave and every change in the wind._

_“Good morning, Commander. Yes, I thought I would come up here before my shift in the sick bay begins.” He glanced at several sailors rushing past, nets bundled in their hands. “You will let me know if I am in the way?”_

_“Rest assured, Mr. Goodsir, you are welcome on deck at any time.” He clapped a hand reassuringly on Goodsir’s arm. “You are one of us now.” He nodded at the small notebook Goodsir was holding. “Though I see you have decided to usurp one of my duties.”_

_“Oh!” Goodsir felt himself redden as he looked from the notebook to the thermometer secured to the mast. “I did not mean to--"_

_Fitzjames laughed. “I tease, Goodsir. In truth, it would not be a bad thing at all for you to keep a record of the daily temperatures yourself, if you are inclined to do so. You heard Sir John at dinner the other night: his enthusiasm for our scientific inquiries is boundless. And I may on occasion be so occupied with other matters that I will neglect to take the readings.” He grinned at Goodsir. “Your own observations may rescue me from accusations of dereliction of duty.”_

_Goodsir smiled, nodded. “I would be happy to be of any service to you, Commander.”_

_“And I to you. Come,” Fitzjames gestured for Goodsir to walk at his side. “Those men whose activity set you to thinking you might be in the way? I’ve given them a task.” They crossed to the port railing and went a little forward, where the two sailors stood, casting the nets over the side into the foam-frosted water below. “Seaman Lloyd, Seaman Tadman.” The young men immediately turned and made their obedience, tugging at their forelocks. “Mr. Goodsir and I are anticipating great results from your trawling efforts. I’m sure you will not disappoint us.”_

_“No sir,” Tadman cried. “We won’t let you down.”_

_“We’ll ‘ave the kraken itself up on deck soon, Commander!” Lloyd added._

_“Well, there you have it Goodsir.” Fitzjames smiled, sunlight and joviality sparkling in his dark eyes. “You shall be writing home to Edinburgh with a full report on no less a beast than the kraken by day’s end.”_

_“I fear I did not bring a large enough specimen jar,” Goodsir said._

_“No matter,” Fitzjames laughed. “After you’ve made your observations and sketches and measurements, we’ll have Mr. Wall slice it up for supper.”_

_“I’m much obliged to you,” Goodsir said, nodding at Lloyd and Tadman who had begun discussing the merits of eating kraken, “for this.”_

_“It’s as much for my sake as yours, Mr. Goodsir. Such things intrigue me, and I’m afraid I’m likely to impose upon you often, once you have your specimens. Perhaps you would be so kind as to indulge me?”_

_“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” Goodsir said, and he meant it._

_“Then I shall look forward to it. Now I must make my reports to Sir John, but I’ll be back in an hour to see what our intrepid fishermen have pulled from the deeps.” With a smile, he started off, pausing to look back and add: “I’m very glad to have you with us, Mr. Goodsir.”_

_“A--and I also,” he stammered as Fitzjames walked away, wincing at his awkward tongue. He had wanted to express how glad he was to be aboard, for in truth he had wondered more than once in the past few days if he hadn’t made a mistake. Fitzjames’s words were immensely cheering, making him feel again as if he had something real to contribute to the expedition. He had had kindnesses from some of the other men - Lt. Gore was especially obliging - but only Fitzjames had expressed gladness for his presence._

_Goodsir wondered if Fitzjames could possibly know how much those few words meant. He could barely imagine the confident commander as a boy, let alone a boy new to the sea: but he must have been once, and perhaps he too had felt as lost and useless then as Goodsir did presently. Perhaps someone had done Fitzjames the same uncommon kindness and offered those comforting words to him._

_He turned back to the sailors at the rail and found Tadman staring at him. “Would you eat kraken, sir? If given the chance?”_

_Goodsir smiled. “I believe I should do whatever Commander Fitzjames did. He seems to me the very model of a sailor.”_

_“Oh aye, sir, he is,” Lloyd said. “Very model of an officer. Of a man, too. Just what a gentleman should be, I reckon.”_

_“Yes,” Goodsir murmured, nodding thoughtfully. “I believe you may be right.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to draw out the angst a little longer, but it will soon be at an end! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of Sir John's funeral brings reminiscences and a reconciliation.

_**09 June, 1845**_

_The floor tilted beneath his feet and Goodsir reeled, catching himself against the opposite wall. He grasped at one of the lamps and held tight, hoping the rivets that joined it to the boards wouldn’t snap and send him sprawling. While still safe in his bunk he’d thought the worst part of the squall the noises: the constant groans of the ship as she crested each new wave, the sharp snap of sails filled with driving wind. But now that he was on his feet - barely - he realized the worst of it was the lack of equilibrium, the way the storm set the ship to rock and teeter about like a child’s top on uneven ground._

_There was a bustle of movement in the passageway up ahead, and Goodsir saw someone coming towards him: the very last person he wanted to observe his current unsteady state. Commander Fitzjames looked as nonplussed as if he were out for a springtime walk, save for the water he was shaking from his coat and brushing from his hair. Goodsir groaned quietly and leaned back against the wall, wishing he might melt into the shadows._

_“Mr. Goodsir. You are abroad late.”_

_“I... couldn’t sleep.”_

_“Yes, it’s a bit rough tonight. Coming at us from the southwest.” Fitzjames ran a hand over his face, wiping off the rain. “I’ve just been on deck ordering the top-sails reefed. You look a bit green, sir,” he added, peering closely at Goodsir._

_“I was on my way-- sick bay--" Goodsir snapped his teeth together quickly, wincing against a wave of nausea._

_“Well, I shan’t keep you, I-- Oh! I’d almost forgotten.” Fitzjames turned to the door across from where Goodsir half-stood, half-sagged: in his befuddled state, he hadn’t realized he’d stopped just outside the commander’s cabin. “I had Mr. Weekes rig up a little something for you to catch specimens in. Just a moment.” Fitzjames ducked inside the small room to grab something, then turned back to Goodsir with a triumphant smile and thrust the item at him._

_Reluctantly letting go of the wall, Goodsir grasped the sturdy wooden bucket in his hands and promptly deposited the whole of his supper inside it._

_“That wasn’t exactly how I’d envisioned you using it,” Fitzjames commented drily._

_Goodsir wiped his lips with the back of a shaking hand. “I am mortified, sir,” he gasped out, voice quavering._

_“None of that.” Fitzjames smiled. “You’d only have needed to be mortified if you’d done that all over me.”_

_“Commander, sir!” Aylmore, the gunroom steward, was making his way down the passageway now, hands braced against both walls. “I thought I heard your voice. Let me get you some dry things, sir--"_

_“No, Aylmore, but you can take this.” He handed the steward the bucket. “Have it washed out and put it in Mr. Goodsir’s cabin when it’s clean.”_

_“Yes sir, but you’re all wet--"_

_“I’ll sort myself out, Aylmore, thank you.” Fitzjames turned again to Goodsir. “You’ll get your sea legs soon enough, I assure you. Come — settle yourself in my cabin until you feel more steady.” He took the naturalist’s arm and steered him through the doorway, helping him to a chair beside a small writing desk. “You’re shaking like a leaf. The shock of being sick, I shouldn’t wonder.” Fitzjames drew a blanket off his bunk and draped it carefully over Goodsir’s shoulders. “Now, rest yourself, and I’ll go to the sick bay and fetch some-- Well, what cure do you recommend? Peppermint?”_

_Goodsir nodded. “The cabinet-- First on the right, inside the door--"_

_The commander nodded and departed. Goodsir watched the lamp above the writing desk swing from side to side with the ship’s motion, willing himself to overcome another wave of nausea and not humiliate himself a second time. Soon enough Fitzjames returned, a small bottle of oil in his hand, and he slid the cabin door shut at his back. “How will you take it?” he asked, opening a drawer in the desk and pulling out a cut-glass decanter and matching tumbler. “Would brandy be acceptable?”_

_Goodsir nodded miserably. “F-five drops should be sufficient.” The commander sloshed a measure of brandy into the glass, then added the drops, the strong, pleasant scent of peppermint filling the small room. As Goodsir drank it down, wincing at the sting of the alcohol, Fitzjames took a gulp straight from the mouth of the decanter._

_“Feeling any better?” He began shrugging out of his sodden coat, droplets of rain spilling on the floor boards as he shook it out._

_“Yes, thank you.” Goodsir huddled into himself beneath the blanket, cheeks still inflamed with embarrassment. “But I-- I don’t wish to be an imposition, sir.”_

_Fitzjames turned sharply to face him. “Firstly, let us dispense with this ‘sirring’ business. You shall call me James when we are alone together, and I shall call you Harry. That is an order. Secondly, I’ll hear no more such nonsense about imposing. Even seasoned hands can feel unwell on nights such as this. The best way to pass them is with the distraction of good company.” The commander gave Goodsir a bright smile, then continued to strip off his wet outer things: waistcoat followed coat, then white jumper, until he was down to his braces and shirt. “Between you and I,_ Harry _, Sir John tends to carry too much sail. He’s thinking of time and speed, I understand, but it aggravates conditions such as these.” He pulled the braces down, then sat on his bunk and began taking off his boots. “But have no fear: we are quite safe. These bomb vessels are a wonder, so heavy and deep in the water that the highest winds seem not to faze them overmuch. Erebus withstood the worst that Napoleon could throw at her; a passing squall is nothing she can’t handle.”_

__

__

_Fitzjames pulled off his sodden stockings and Goodsir could not help but admire the man’s bare feet. They were model specimens, long and slender, the lines of the metatarsals and the talus as perfect as if sculpted. Goodsir wondered briefly if it would be a violation of Naval protocol to ask the expedition commander to pose for an anatomical sketch._

__

__

_“Is that not a hindrance to our endeavor, sir?” he ventured to ask, hoping to impress upon Fitzjames that he was more than a vomiting, knock-kneed nuisance. “The ship’s draught, I believe it’s called?”_

_Fitzjames grinned and pointed a finger at Goodsir. “You see? You are turning nautical already. That is a hotly debated point, and our good master Blanky on_ Terror _is inclined to that view. But I believe his fears on that score are overblown. The channels we will be navigating through should prove amply deep to facilitate our passage.” He had taken a fresh pair of stockings from a drawer beneath his bed and was pulling them on. “The areas most likely to be free of ice will be the deepest, and thus our two requirements for success will coincide.”_

_“You are confident, then, that we make the Passage this year?” Goodsir asked._

_“Not necessarily. One winter in the pack will probably be required unless we should be very fortunate. And in truth, Harry, I rejoice in that. To hurry home to familiar shores and scenes, even with great acclaim to accompany us? No, that’s not how I would have it. An endeavor as great as ours should take some time and trial to accomplish, wouldn’t you agree?”_

_The boat tilted again, its motion clearly indicated by the lamp, and Goodsir gripped the chair beneath him with both hands, wincing. “I suppose so,” he murmured._

_“But enough about naval matters!” Fitzjames cried suddenly, leaning forward to seize the decanter of brandy again. “I wish to learn more of Harry D. S. Goodsir. His pursuits and passions, his haunts and habitations.”_

_Goodsir blushed and shook his head, smiling. “I am afraid there would be very little to interest so accomplished a man as yourself, sir. Eh, James.”_

_“Nonsense! Begin with why you wished to accompany this expedition, and we shall proceed from there.”_

_So Goodsir began: rather reluctantly at first, but aided by questions from Fitzjames he slowly warmed to the task, if not to the subject. He started by recounting how he had read Dr. McDonald’s book about his experiences on the whaling voyages of Captain William Penny, and how the doctor’s relationship with the Inuit man Eenoo had inspired Goodsir’s interest in the peoples of the polar regions. He confessed how he hoped he might be able to make a real contribution, as McDonald had already done, to scientific knowledge, and what his observations of the specimens he had already obtained led him to theorize. He talked about his studies at the Royal College of Surgeons, of memorable professors and interesting experiments, of his time as curator of the Surgeons’ Museum. He talked until he suddenly noticed that the floor beneath his feet was level and the lamp was hanging motionless over their heads._

_Then he smiled, cheeks pinking again, this time with rueful pleasure. “Thank you, James.”_

_Fitzjames shrugged, his look one of bewilderment. “For what?”_

_“For distracting me from the squall. I know that’s what you were doing, and I’m grateful. I feel quite myself again.”_

_“You give me too much credit, Harry. I merely wanted to learn more about my remarkable shipmate who adores the grampus and delights in various forms of blubber. You are a breath of fresh air amidst we fusty seamen, my friend.”_

_Perhaps it was just a figure of speech, the commander’s use of the word “friend” in this manner. Yet it did something inside of Goodsir equivalent to downing a glass of alcohol too quickly, or sledding down a steep hill in winter. On impulse, he put out his hand and Fitzjames took it. It was not a shake but a strong clasp, and the commander held it for some time. The expression in the other man’s eyes puzzled Goodsir: kindness was there, and a measure of surprise, and something else that was almost wistful or sad. Unable to interpret it, and too shy to hold it for long, Goodsir glanced away._

_“I’ll leave you to get some rest now.”_

_Fitzjames rose from his bunk, taking the blanket that Goodsir held out to him. “Sleep well, Harry.”_

_Back in his cabin, Goodsir dreamed of dark eyes and firm hands pulling him from a turbulent sea._

***

The concussions of the Marines’ rifles jolted Goodsir from his reverie. The funeral, such as it was, had ended, and with it something of the innocence he’d possessed before. He supposed Sir John’s death had made many of the men feel the same.

The crews moved in slow-motion back toward the ships, as if each of them navigated through a dream world that at any moment might dissolve beneath their feet. Goodsir noticed very little outside of his own thoughts, barely stopping himself from colliding with the figure that stepped suddenly into his path.

Fitzjames.

His expression was as stolid as it had being during the service, but perhaps more strained, as if he were trying even harder now to hold back some strong emotion. Goodsir tensed, remembering how he had imagined that Fitzjames might rebuke him.

Instead, the commander put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it slightly. His voice, when he spoke, was rough around the edges and quavered a little at the end of his words. “Thank God you were not harmed.”

Goodsir blinked. He had been so little expecting this that he fumbled for a response. “I-- I would that Sir John were still here, rather than me.”

“Don’t say that.” Fitzjames shook his head. His grasp tightened on Goodsir’s shoulder. “I couldn’t part with you. When I first learned that you were with the party at the blind…” He bit off his words with a tightening of his jaw, and gave another short shake of his head. “Thank God,” he ended simply. 

“How-- how are you?” Goodsir stuttered out. “I know that you were very close to Sir John, and… Is there anything that I can do? For you?” 

Fitzjames gave a small, sad smile. “Walk with me?”

They turned toward _Erebus_ , Goodsir feeling the first tentative lightness in his spirits since Gore’s death. Fitzjames walked slowly to match his pace, the sleeves of their greatcoats chafing together as they moved.

“I miss our evenings together, Harry,” Fitzjames said quietly. “Our cozy evenings of scientific study and good conversation. We might have been in a club in London or some parlor in Edinburgh, so far removed did they seem from the cares of the voyage. Now it feels like they belong to another lifetime altogether.” He turned to regard Goodsir as they walked, snowflakes sticking to his eyelashes. “Do you think we might reinstate them? If not now, at least when the winter months set in and there is less to keep us occupied?”

“I would like that very much.” Goodsir could not help smiling, as incongruous and inappropriate as it seemed on such a day. “My door is always open for you, you know. Anytime I am not occupied in the sick bay, I am at your disposal.”

“Dr. Stanley keeps you busy. Perhaps I should make a standing order of it. ‘Henceforth, the captain and his assistant-surgeon must have at least three evenings per week for the perusal and discussion of scientific matters, and they _must not be disturbed_ ’.”

Goodsir smiled. “An order might be the only way Dr. Stanley could be prevailed upon to respect it.” He paused, instantly regretting his words. “I do not mean to speak ill of him--"

“Oh come, Harry. You cannot be so perfect, it is bad for the morale of the rest of us mortals.” Fitzjames’s eyes sparkled, the first sign of humor Goodsir had seen from him in too long. “Stanley is not… the most easygoing of fellows at the best of times. I hate to think how little consideration he shows you now.”

“It is not so bad as that.” Goodsir looked at Fitzjames’s profile. It was an impressive one, as he had often thought, sculpted as if for a destiny of leadership. For memorialization in portraits and busts. “I must remember to call you captain now.”

“I much prefer hearing you call me James.”

Warmth blossomed in Goodsir’s chest: whether from embarrassment at the remembrance of their last conversation, or relief that it had been forgiven, he could not tell. “You have earned it. Yet I am sorry. Sorry that it had to come to you in such a way as this.”

Fitzjames turned to him again and laid his hand once more upon Goodsir’s shoulder. “I can bear this burden easier with the support of my friends. I hope you know, Harry, that I count you chief amongst them.”

They had reached the gangplank, and Le Vesconte was calling to Fitzjames from the area of the capstan. Overcome by his captain’s words, Goodsir had no response other than a nod and a smile. Fitzjames seemed to comprehend him nonetheless and they parted company, Goodsir reeling a little. His relief was immense. He felt like a man who had rediscovered something thought lost. Something so precious and essential that the mere belief of its disappearance had been enough to unbalance his world.

He walked back to his cabin, the cold that had stung his cheeks and numbed his hands utterly forgotten, burned from his mind by the remembrance of Fitzjames’s words. 

_His assistant-surgeon._

Should he serve the Royal Navy for the rest of his life, Goodsir could think of no title he would like better than that one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I was writing this chapter I kept thinking that I'd gotten the part about Blanky being concerned about the draught of the ships from Fitzjames's actual journal. It was actually inspired by John Wilson's fictional take on the journal - and the expedition - in his novel _North with Franklin_.


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